


I See Dead People

by readercat



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:12:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/readercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James sees dead people.  He doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Have a Castle

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! For now, James and Michael are just friends in the story, but that could always change. .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James laments his gift.

My names is James McAvoy.  And for almost as long as I can remember, I have been able to see... _things_.  To be precise: Things _"not of this world”_ (well, _no longer_ of this world, at any rate).  Ghosts, spirits, souls, entities, replays, psychic impressions...you know, supernatural creepy-crawly stuff.  This _ability_ has long been the bane of my existence.

Frankly put, I hate it.

If you’re not thinking by now that I’m bug-fuck crazy (which probably means that _you’re_ bug-fuck crazy), you’re probably thinking to yourself, _‘Why, James! That’s such a cool ability! How can you say that you hate it?!’_

Allow me to answer that question with this wee scenario:

Imagine, if you will, a horny teenage boy about to lose his V-Card to a very hot, nubile, _willing_ young lady.  He’s managed to get the condom on without disaster occurring, and everything.   _Then_...just as he’s about to achieve his life-long dream of penetration, he feels a chill in the air...and looks up to see his dead grandmother staring down at him in disapproval.   _Phoa!_  Cock-blocked by me dead Gran!  

You know..., looking back, I’ve never been sure if her disapproval was aimed at me having sex or at my technique.  Not that it mattered:  Who could keep a boner after that?  Not me, that’s for damn sure.  And you ask me why I hate this ability?

And that is only _one_ example of what I have to go through.

 

Ok.  To sum up the story, so far:  I’m James McAvoy.  I see dead people.  And I hate it.

Are we all on the same page, then?  Good.  Let’s carry on to the heart of the story:

 

Through events that I can’t entirely remember, I have recently come into possession of a moldy old castle, located somewhere in Scotland’s back of beyond. Now, being that I see dead people and hate it, you’re probably wondering _why in the world_ would I own a castle which has better than even odds of being haunted?  Let’s just say that alcohol and Michael Fassbender were involved and leave it at that.   _However_ it played out, for a cool £800,000, I am not only a proud castle-owner—it seems that I purchased the title of the Barony along with the title to the castle.

 

My best friend and partner in crime--that trouble-making arse, Michael, and I are going to be leaving soon for a wee road-trip up to the Highlands (or near enough, anyway) to take a wee gander at my newly-acquired, possibly fucking haunted castle.  Fordyce Castle. Located in the wee village of Fordyce (about a mile or so off the Moray Firth Coast).  Near Elgin, if that helps you get a better fix on the location.  As for the castle, itself, according to the paperwork I got from the realtor: _"...except for the added wing to the left of the castle, much of the castle retains its original shape and quaintness.  The walls aren't quite straight, the stone work reminisce of ancient days in this little town, and the shot windows are just as narrow and plentiful as when the original Lord Provost of Aberdeen (Thomas Menzies) had to defend his princess.”_  

You're probably thinking, _"Ooh!  That sounds so lovely and interesting!"_    Not me.  I'm thinking, "This place sounds like a dump.  And with my luck, the miserable rotter and lady-friend are probably still there."

Oh.  And did I mention that Michael doesn't know about my 'gift'?  This trip is going to be so much fun.

I can hardly fucking wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fordyce Castle is a real castle for sale (along with the barony) in Scotland.


	2. Road Trip:  The First Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is proving to be the worst road-trip companion, ever. But James ultimately gets his revenge.

"Jesus H. Christ, Michael! Would you stop _doing_ that!?!”

 

In answer, my ears are assaulted by maniacal laughter.  Just like my nose has been repeatedly assaulted by the after-effects of the curry Michael _insisted_ we have before setting out on the road.  The bloody bastard has been farting non-stop since we left the city _over an hour ago._  Now I know why he offered to drive for the first leg of the trip:  it gives him control over the window locks.  I am powerless and he snickers uncontrollably with that knowledge.

I never before realized what any annoying laugh he has.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby!” Michael grins, unashamed.  He has far too many teeth, I notice.  “We’re on a road-trip, James! You should be having fun, not pouting like a spoilt child!”

“That’s easy for _you_ to say,” I snipe, knowing that I do sound like a petulant child, “since you’re apparently immune to your own stenc—Oh, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!” I gag, and claw at the window as a ‘fresh’ wave of curry wafts over me.  “For the love of all that is holy, would you _please_ crack the fucking window?!!”

My plea for mercy is met by naught but evil chortling from the smug, unrepentant bastard who _claims_ to be my friend.  Little does he know, the only thing keeping him alive right now is that because of my ‘gift’, I fear that should I give into the urge to kill him, he would only prove to be more annoying in death than in life (though he’d probably smell better).

“You’re far too uptight, James.  Just sit back and relax!  Enjoy the scenery.”

“Enjoy the scenery?  Which scenery!?”  I snort, waving a hand at the surrounding countryside.  “Do you mean the unrelenting rain or the unrelenting fog?”  I don’t mention all of the ghosties and such I see wandering about, mingling with the mist and rain, occasionally peeking through the car window...startling the shit out of me (you’d think I’d be used to it by now).

“Such a negative Nancy, you.”  Michael rolls his eyes.  “Take a nap or something, then.”

“I wouldn’t _dare_ fall asleep around you,” I snarl.  “Not after last time.”  The dirty look I give him is completely wasted, of course.  Like water off a duck’s back. He has no conscience.

Michael chuckles with evil mirth, as I glare at him and rub my hand protectively over my head.  My hair is _finally_ starting to grow back in, thank God.  Most people aren’t aware, but Professor X wasn’t actually meant to be bald for the latest X-Men installment.  It was, shall we say, a last minute development. Courtesy of Mr. Fassbender.  Fortunately, I am wicked sexy, even without hair ( _Take_ that _Sir Patrick!)_ , so it all worked out in the end.  But you can bet your sweet arse that I now sleep with one eye open when Michael Fassbender is about.

“ _Jesus_ , Michael!!!”  Yeah, one eye open—and my nostrils plugged.  I pull my shirt over my nose and try to burrow into my seat and think happy thoughts, while he cackles unrepentantly.

 

 

One of Michael’s weaknesses is that he has a bladder the size of a walnut so, after what seems an eternity to my nostrils (but in reality, is only a few more minutes), he stops at a petrol station to ruin, er  _use_ the loo.  The _moment_ we exit the vehicle, though, I am on him like a honey badger.  The car keys are clutched in my triumphant fist before he can even react (aside from a bit of pitiful squawking).  I am King of the World.

Michael slinks off in defeat, presumably to empty his absurdly tiny bladder, while I stride proudly into the store to purchase snacks.  The spoils of war, if you will.  Oh, did I forget to mention that I also took Michael’s wallet?  Well, what did you expect?  I’m a Weegie, darlings.  We don’t do things by halves.

I grab some water and...Ooh, _Jaffa Cakes_! I love them so much, but usually avoid them because I can get a bit pudgy about the middle if I’m not careful—this is a special day, though, so I snatch them off the shelf.  Then I spy Snack Nirvana:  a rack filled with Firecrackers, Slim Jims, and beef jerky.  Oh, America, you naughty vixen, you do know how to do a right proper snack.

I quickly calculate that if Michael stays true to form, he should be in the loo for a quite a while (probably admiring himself—though if there’s any justice in the world, he’s regretting that curry right about now), which should give me plenty of time to eat my weight in spicy, smelly meat snacks.  I have the car keys, and we’ve got, what?  About 2 ½ hours remaining to the castle?   _Oh, yes!_   Revenge is mine.  

My smile is pure evil.

 

Michael _finally_ emerges from the loo.  I should probably go, too, but right now, you couldn’t _pay_ me to go in there.  I saw vegetation die when the door opened. Ghost plants.  That's a first.

In a perfect world, just to see the look on his face, I would tell him about the pervy ghost who was watching him through the window.  But I have to say that Michael’s expression when he notices the abundance of empty Firecracker wrappers piled in front of me, is proving to be very gratifying, indeed.  “Are you ready to head out, Michael?”

He’s looking nervous.  Good.  “Er...how long ‘til we get to the castle?”

I relish his look of dismay as I answer, “Oh, _at least_ another couple hours."  Unbeknownst to him, I've already activated the child-safety locks. As I slide into the driver's seat and hit the doors locks (effectively trapping him in here with me), I smile sweetly, adding, "That's plenty of time for me to finish the rest of these Firecrackers.”

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, but I say that revenge is a dish best served at room-temperature...in non-recyclable wee plastic tubes.

It's almost enough to make facing the prospect of a possibly-haunted castle worth the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Firecrackers are a heart-attack-inducing pickled bologna snack, infused with heat from a hot pepper I can only assume is farmed in Hell, itself. Intestinal distress after eating one is usually imminent. Mountain Dew and Firecrackers (or Slim Jims, for those of more delicate constitution)--the stuff of the gods, in the US South.
> 
> A note reference Jaffa Cakes: I don't know if James likes them or not. The mention is just a nod to a friend in Scotland. When I was visiting him, he insisted that I try one, claiming my life would not be complete without this delicacy. It was terrible! He seemed confused that I didn't fall over and orgasm at the taste. I would have thought he was messing with me, but he proceeded to happily devoured the entire package. Is he just weird or are those things really popular in Scotland?


	3. Road Trip:  The Second Leg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to the castle, James and Michael banter. Then they have a close call.

It didn’t take long to exact my revenge, though I’d been somewhat disappointed that, thanks to my iron Scottish constitution, the Firecrackers didn’t have quite the combustive effect for which I’d hoped (and Michael had feared).  I just told him to consider it a warning.

About an hour out from the castle, we switch drivers again.  I told Michael that I was getting a bit of a headache (which was true), and asked him to drive the rest of the way.  Really, though, the problem was more to do with the ghosts hanging about.  They were unusually active in this area.  I’d nearly ran the car off the road a couple of times because they kept leaping out at random moments—they’re worse than deer ‘round here, honestly.

Now that I’m not having to split my concentration between driving and ignoring ghosts, my headache has eased off and I am finally starting to relax and unwind a bit for real.  In fact, I may have relaxed a little _too much_ , if Michael’s sudden and vicious cursing is any indication (I’d said that the Firecrackers didn’t have _quite_ the effect for which I was hoping—not that they _none_ ).

Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth as I ask, “Something the matter, Michael?”

“Damn you, McAvoy!!”

“That would ‘ _Lord McAvoy_ ’ to you,” I reply, arching an eyebrow at him.

“What?!” Michael squawks.  I have to grab the steering wheel to keep him from running us off the road.

I recline back in my seat and prop my feet on the dash (causing Michael to look very alarmed indeed), then I smile condescendingly, and in the snottiest English accent I can muster, say, “You know, Michael, I’ve been thinking...,” I ignore his rude comment to that, and continue, “I’m a Baron now, so you should begin addressing me as is befitting my station.  I don’t want to make a poor impression on the villagers.  You may also refer to me as ‘My Lord’ or ‘Your Lordship’, if you’d like. ‘My liege’ is a bit heavy-handed and would make you sound like the suck-up you’ll no doubt prove to be, but I’ll still count it as an acceptable form of address.”

The sour look Michael gives me in return could curdle milk, and he mutters something which sounds suspiciously like, “Over my dead body!”

I have to snort a bit at that.   _Oh, if he only knew the truth._

“Fucking hell, James! Excuse me, I meant _Lord McAvo_ y,” Michael corrects himself, sounding sarcastic as fuck.  “As your friend, allow me to advise you that you sound like a pompous twat.  The villagers will be after you with the pitchforks and torches straight away.”

“I’ve no worries.  As my man-servant, I fully expect you to act as my human shield.  Besides, if things get really bad, I can just feed you some curry and use you as a biological weapon.”

“Man-servant!” Michael snorts, incredulously.

“That’s right.  Man-servant.  Just so you know, I like my tea in the mornings, white with just a bit of sugar.”

“As _your Lordship_ wishes.  Just don’t get pissy with me if I get the sugar and ground glass mixed up some fine morning.” Michael laughs.

“Don’t forget that we’re in Scotland, where fine mornings are few and far between, so I’ve no worries there,” I laugh back.  “And for the record, you should know that you’re also now my Taster, as well.”

“Curses, foiled again!” Michael grumbles good-naturedly.  

Eventually, Michael and I settled into a relaxed and comfortable silence.  We’re almost to the village when I spot the hitchhiker up ahead.  I see her standing beside the road, drenched by the pouring rain, shivering, and pale as, well...a ghost.  My skin goes cold when I realize that Michael sees her, too.  

“You see that girl?” he asks.  “You think we should stop and help her?"

“NO!!!  Don’t stop!  Keep going!  Just leave her!  We’ll call the police when we get closer to town.”  The vast majority of ghosts are harmless, but if one has enough mojo that a near-null like Michael can see it, it’s usually dangerous.  Michael, of course, ignores me and starts slowing down.

“Leave her!!” I shout, again.

“James, what’s wrong with you?!  The poor girl is soaked through!  We can’t just leave her here!  We have to stop.”

Oh, shite!  This is not good. Not good at all. We can’t pick her up and I can’t tell him why.  We are almost stopped and she is coming over to the car. “Michael, don’t stop!  We can’t let her in the car!!”  

Frantic, I step over the center console and jam my foot down on top of Michael’s, pushing down the accelerator.  As the car speeds by it, Michael’s shouts ringing in my ears, I catch a glimpse of the frustrated rage on the ghost’s face and I’m so very, very glad we didn’t stop.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, James?!!” Michael shouts at me.  “You nearly caused me to crash the car!!”

“We couldn’t stop for her Michael!”

“Why the fuck not?!  That poor girl is going to freeze to death out here!”

I’m trying to think fast, come up with an excuse that sounds plausible, that won’t make me sound like a loon.  Anything but the absolute truth.  “Michael, have you seen any cars on the road in the last hour?”

He looks at me suspiciously. “No...” he finally says.

“If you were a hitchhiker, would you have someone drop you off in the middle of nowhere in weather like this?”

Another suspicious look.  “No...I suppose not.”

“Then why was she there?  If she’d been out there for any length of time, she’d have already been frozen, don’t you think?”

“I, I suppose...” Michael is starting to look a little less suspicious of me now.

“You didn’t see her face when we passed her by.  She wasn’t dismayed, or scared, or anything like that.  She was furious, Michael.  Not indignant—furious, like we’d slipped through her grasp.  I’d say that she probably had some mates parked or stationed nearby, banking on a couple of clueless Good Samaritans to stop and take pity on a poor, stranded girl.  I bet if we went back now, she’d be long gone.”  If nothing else, that last sentence was certainly true.

Understanding (of a sort) was starting to dawn on his face.  “She was going to rob us!”

Sometimes I scare myself with how clever I am.

“Yes!”  I give him a ‘duh!’ look, for good measure.  “I’ll bet if we ask about, there’s probably been a rash of robberies and assaults, maybe even murders, along this stretch of motorway, especially in weather like this.  I’ve read about stuff like this happening in these remote areas.”

Michael looks shaken.  “We could have been killed!  I’m sorry for yelling at you, James.  You saved our lives!”

I take a little pity on him, and say, “Well, we probably would have just been robbed and beaten.  But still...you have to be careful, Michael.”

“I will.”

I slap him on the shoulder, hoping that he can’t feel how badly I’m still shaking, and I try to cheer him up.  “We’re ok now, and we’re almost to the village—let’s just concentrate on that for now.”

And, hopefully, he’ll never know how close we came to dying today.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Michael arrive at the castle and meet the care-taker.

At long last, we finally arrive at the castle.  The rain has eased off and we’ve even got a bit of daylight left.

Far from being in the middle of nowhere, the keep is, in fact, right in the center of the village.  To my surprise, at first glance it doesn’t appear to be in bad shape at all—certainly not the crumbling, rat-infested money-pit that I’d feared, at any rate.  This blessing is also a curse, though, as it’s seemingly well-kept state means that a lot of people have occupied the place over the years—and more people means a greater chance of the bloody thing being haunted.

“I’m supposing you’ll be the new Baron, then?”  I hear a voice rasp in my ear.

I turn to see a wizened old crone standing next to me.  “AAAAAACCCKKKK!!!!”   _Oh, God, it’s started already,_ I think, before catching on that she’s real.  I hear Michael snickering behind me, amused as fuck at my embarrassment.  As usual, he ignores my glare of loathing.

Meanwhile, the old lady is looking at me like I’m daft, giving my the hairy eyeball, so I manage to pull it together and say, “Er...um, yes.  Yes, I’m the new owner of the castle.”  I hold my hand out to her, “James.  James McAvoy.”  And, of course, not the slightest hint of recognition from her.

I expect her to shake hands like a normal human being, but she just looks at my hand like it’s covered with leprosy, then slaps a key into my palm.

“My man and me have been keeping the place up for the realtor,” she wheezes out.  “Electricity is on and the heat—as well, wood and kindling have been laid in the hearths, you’ll just need set a match to it.  There’s food and water in the pantry and fridge—you city folk always forget to bring enough.  Took me the liberty of making a shepherd’s pie, M’Lord...,” Michael’s snickering at her use of the title is abruptly silenced by her gimlet stare, and she continues, “just needs to be heated.  Also, I’ve prepared a room for you and your _‘partner’_ in the second floor of the west wing.”

“Thank you for the food. But, er...he’s not my _‘partner_ ’,” I say, pointing at Michael—who winks and blows a kiss at me, “we’re just friends, so are there any other rooms ready?”

“No.”

Call me jaded, but from the glint of vicious satisfaction in her beady eyes, I somehow get the feeling that she’s lying.

“Fine,” I sigh, letting her bask in her own personal Downton Abbey moment.  “I don’t suppose you’d mind at least giving me a tour of the place, then...?”

We stand there for a moment, engaged in what I think is a silent battle of wills (which I think I’m winning), until she finally rolls her eyes in disgust and rasps, “Well, are you going to unlock the door laddie, or you gonnae stand there the night and stare at me tits?”

_Oh, that’s right. I have the key._ Embarrassed, I ignore her covert snickering and Michael’s outright laughter (bastard is all but falling about) and unlock the doors leading into the castle.  Once inside, I am again surprised:  the interior appears to be in quite good shape, so far—well-lit and relatively warm and dry for this part of Scotland at this time of year.

“This is the west wing of the castle,” the old lady tells us. “It’s the newer portion, and quite nice, it is.”

_Quite_ nice, in fact—Anne-Marie will love it.  Even Michael appears to be impressed—as much as a mere commoner can be, I suppose.  Now I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“The original portion, with the tower,” Ms. Donalson (as she’s finally revealed herself to be) puffs out as our tour comes to an end, “is about what you’d expect—all but uninhabitable.  Though it is still lovely in the way that us old things can be sometimes.”

I’m not an actor for nothing, darlings. I know a cue when I hear one.  Mentally rolling my eyes, I smile charmingly, “Now what are you on about, Ms. D, lumping your fine self in with _‘us old things’_?”

“Old, my arse,” Michael snorts, chiming on cue, supporting me, for once, like any good man-servant should.

And right on _her_ cue, Ms. Donalson blushes and waves a hand at us, “Oh, now get on with you, you cheeky young lads!  I won’t be having none of that sex talk!”

It was like a beautifully constructed play.  And I can see that my cunning plan has worked, as she has warmed up to Michael and me considerably, even unbending enough to offer to make up a separate room for Michael.  I endear myself to her even further, when I say, “Nonsense! You’ve done more than enough this evening, Ms. D—just point out the linen closet.  Michael can make up his own room.  His arms ain’t broke.”

She cackles openly (I swear to God, I can see dust puffing out of her desiccated lungs), as Michael gapes at me offended as fuck.  I count it as a win and smile sweetly at him.

I turn to Ms. D, “Now I believe it’s time for you to be getting home to your man.”  As I take her arm to escort her out, I call over my shoulder: “Oh, and while you’re getting the linens to make up your room, Michael, would you mind putting that shepherd’s pie on to heat?  I’d like to dine at a reasonable hour.”

I don’t look back, but Ms. D’s hacking laugh tells me all I need to know about his expression:   _McAvoy scores again!_

I am making small talk with Ms. D as I walk her to the to the door, during which she has somehow convinced me to keep her and her husband on as care-takers, and when I mention Anne-Marie, Ms. D suddenly stops and looks at me, narrow-eyed.  “Anne-Marie?  Anne-Marie _Duff_?  The actress?!”

_It figures,_ I sigh mentally. _My English is wife is more popular in Scotland than my Scottish self._   “Yeah, she’s me wife.”  

I can’t help but be proud, though—she truly is amazing.

Ms. D blinks at me for a moment, then:  “Ohhh! Then, you’re _Steve_!!! ”

I shrug and smile. “Guilty.”

“Ooohhh! I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place you. I loved Steve and Fiona on _Shameless_!” she says (though she was obviously more fond of Fiona).  “Chatsworth was never the same after they left!  Show just lost its sparkle.”

“Well it was time to move on to other things, so we decided to leave the show while we were still popular.  Didn’t want folks getting sick of us, you know.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.  But I still miss them.”  Then she starts snickering.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just realized, M’Lord, I’ve seen your naked bum,” she snickers.

I want to crawl into a hole.  “Um, yes...well, here we are,” I say as we reach the door and I’m practically shoving her out.  “It really has been lovely meeting you, Ms. D, and I’m sure that my family and I will enjoy our stays here.”

She shuffles out the door, still chuckling.  But just as I'm about to close the door, I hear her call out.

 

“M’Lord?”  She's stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and is looking back at me.  It takes a moment to remember that she’s addressing me.  The look on her face is one that I’ve been dreading.

“Yes?”

“You probably will think me daft, M'Lord, but you seem like a nice young lad, so I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t tell you...sometimes strange things happen in the castle.”

_I fucking_ knew _it!_   Wizened old bird probably wouldn’t have told me if I hadn’t mentioned Anne.

Seeing the look on my face, she hastily adds, “Oh, nothing bad has ever happened there, mind you—at least, not to me.  But make no mistake, there are things there that can’t be explained.  That’s why the last Baron sold the place.  I though you deserved to know.  Goodnight, lad.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Donalson.  Thanks for the warning.  I appreciate the head-up.”

 

And there it was: the other shoe had dropped.  Confirmation of what I had feared.  The fucking place was haunted.

 

Not that I wouldn’t have found out on my own.


End file.
